Blue and Bronze
by Elvendork27
Summary: In which Harry gets sorted into Ravenclaw, and not everything goes to plan. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1 - Intelligence

**Disclaimer – I do not own the Harry Potter franchise**

He doesn't fit in here.

He'd known it since the moment he walked down from the three-legged stool to the table clad with blue and bronze, a myriad of tones shrieking that yes, we got Potter, we got Potter, we got Potter; ever since the initial conversation with the first years, in which he was asked what his favourite lesson at Hogwarts was. Remembering one of the course books he had given the cursory glance at when he got it, he answered Transfiguration, and got an approving look from all the other Ravenclaws. He very nearly congratulated himself silently when they started talking about the different branches of transfiguration, and no, he didn't know what elemental transfiguration was and he didn't really want to know, but he very nearly wilted under the pressure of Stephen, Mandy and Morag's open yet slightly condescending stares.

So he spewed off some rubbish about what experimental magic it was and how unstable it was. He gathered he'd said the right thing, as the others gave him favourable looks.

And he thought, hey, maybe I'll be alright.

He spends a lot of time in the library. He mainly does it so that he can keep up with his impossible House, but there are other perks too – people don't stare at him and hiss to their friends that that's Harry Potter, and why is he in Ravenclaw; surely their saviour belongs in Gryffindor with the chivalrous and the noble, not chumming it up with the swots?

To be honest, he doesn't know.

He reads about anything and everything, from the mating habits of Bundimuns or the wand movements needed for the finger-removing jinx, and when he does that, he summarises what he has just learnt in neat handwriting on the roll of parchment he always carries around with him, because you never know when you'll need it.

Harry looks at the pile of parchment he'd clumsily bound. It was already a couple of inches thick and they were only a week and a half into term. He looks at the pile and thinks yes, he can do it. He'll show them all.

But what Harry doesn't realise is that all the time spent in the library might have been good for his studies, but it certainly wasn't for his social life. The first years had already banded into groups, which he would have been included in if he hadn't been poring over tomes filled with trivial information. It was now Michael and Kevin, Anthony and Terry, Stephen and Lisa.

And just Harry.

He thinks about Ron sometimes. Ron, who has made friends with the boy who lost his toad (Neville, he thinks, Neville), Ron, who messes around in class, Ron, who gives him subtle smiles from his place at the back of the classroom, but gives no invitation to go up there with him. Harry knows at the back of his mind that their 'friendship' can go no further; Ron doesn't want to be friends with the Ravenclaw Saviour; the boy who spends all his time in the library. Let it go. But Harry is nothing if not stubborn, so he continues to glance at Ron out of the corner of his eye. He tries to talk to him, but it seems that when he's about to, Ron just disappears.

He also thinks about Draco. Draco, who was rude and arrogant and more than a bit deluded, but had offered Harry his friendship.

When Harry sees Draco and Ron bickering and snarling like cats, he imagines himself with them. Sometimes he's with Ron, his hand resting reassuringly on Ron's shoulder, not Neville's, and other times he sees himself with Draco, trading amused looks with him and offering biting verbal witticisms.

He can't decide which one he prefers.

But those thoughts are just pipe dreams, and he has a 2 foot essay to do on the properties of the Wingardium Levisoa spell.

His teachers don't seem to know what to make of him. There is Professor Flitwick, who seems to think that Harry has a flair for charms (he doesn't, he just researches the material before the lesson) and a passion for reading (once again, he doesn't – he hates reading, but he _has_ to to be able to keep up). Sinistra likes him enough, but was a bit surprised to see The Boy Who Lived in Ravenclaw – along with everyone else. Snape can't seem to make up his mind about Harry, sometimes punishing him in class for _breathing too loud_, sometimes being completely apathetic and sometimes glancing at him with a gleam of respect in his eyes. Sprout doesn't think that highly of him, as he's never really shone at Herbology. He doesn't care what Quirrel thinks, as his lessons are a joke. McGonagall never misses a chance to tell him of his parents – The beautiful, pure, prodigal Lily Potter with the talent for charms – that apparently he inherited – and potions and the roguish, handsome, intelligent James Potter, who was gifted in transfiguration and Quidditch. She also seems to be a bit baffled by Harry, that he didn't live up to his shining Gryffindor parents name.

Everyone seems to compare him to his parents.

He would have been glad to hear about his parents, once upon a time, but now they are a burden he has to carry. Everyone seems to think that he should be more like them, but how can he? He's never played Quidditch or planted an elaborate magical prank; he's never written a 3 foot thesis on the theory of magic or asked for extra credit.

He's not a Gryffindor.

Even the students buy into this, sniggering that his parents would turn in their graves if they knew what their son had turned out to be – a swot, a loner, a disappointment – when they think he cannot hear. Of course, he does hear from behind suits of armour and in secret passageways he found to get to classes earlier. One day, he even hears Ron murmur to some boy when he walks past that he isn't really saviour material, is he? And are they sure they've got the right Boy-Who-Lived, as he's not really cut from the same material heroes are, is he? And the other boy snorts and tries to cover his giggles as Ro – no, _Weasley _stands next to him and smirks, happy in the knowledge that he has made a friend laugh at the expense of a would-be one.

Something in Harry hardens when he hears _Weasley_ say those horrible things, and he thinks, I've had enough. So he holds his head higher and clutches his books on Vanishing Magic tighter to his chest, and stalks away, all the while thinking, I'll show them.

The first flying lesson had been on the previous Friday, and his lesson was with the Hufflepuffs. He had stood opposite a girl with blonde bunches in her hair and felt ridiculous as he commanded an inanimate object into his hand. Said inanimate object was gnarled and ugly, as if it had once been beautiful but that privilege had been stripped away, layer by layer. He cannot help thinking about his parents rotting corpses as he examines the broom, once so attractive to him but now he feels nothing in relation to the subject, only the slightest hint of sadness. He had been told by Madame Hooch that he had a natural talent for flying. "Runs in the family, eh?" She had said to him in an attempt to give him some misguided pride in his dead parents. It didn't run in the family. He had checked the past yearbooks and under Lily Evans, someone had written that she was a terrible flier.

So there.

Harry had, of course, heard the rumours of the other first year flying lesson. Apparently, _Weasley_ had nearly been expelled for flying when Madame Hooch wasn't there, and that he had lost loads of house points and gotten a detention every night for two months. The Gryffindors were furious, and Harry couldn't deny the feeling of creeping satisfaction he had felt, however horrible that sounds. _Weasley_ laughed at him! _Weasley_ had the gall to badmouth him behind his back, when they had once been set on the track to being such good friends!

_Weasley_ was not his friend.

Harry thinks back to the sorting quite a lot. He remembers 'not Slytherin, not Slytherin' over and over and over. The hat had laughed and commented in its slightly nasal voice that he could be great in Slytherin. He had given a sparing thought towards Gryfffindor, saying please, please Gryffindor before reverting back to the anti-Slytherin mantra that was circulating round his head like a model train. The hat had then said something that made him stop. It commented that "Surely, surely you want more then what can be given in the House of the brave?"

That had made him stop.

And in that pause, that momentary still - did he really only want to be classed as crass and daring, to have no more depth to his personality then the Gryffindor House traits? - The hat struck, as quickly and silently as a predator on its prey with a cry of -

"RAVENCLAW!"

And he felt like crying.

And he still does, whenever he thinks if the sorting, because even Slytherin would be better than what he has now.

When Hagrid sends Harry a note, asking for him to come and visit, Harry doesn't want to. It's not that he doesn't like Hagrid, he does, really, it's just that Hagrid seemed to be against every House except from Gryffindor, and he knows the visit to the large gamekeeper will be filled with comments about how utterly perfect his parents were (and still are, apparently) and thinly veiled insults on his House disguised as well-meaning compliments. Now, it's not that Harry has an over abundant sense of house pride, but he was going to spend the best part of the day with the man, he didn't particularly want to spend it getting put down for something that was out of his control (he really hates the Sorting Hat).

So he lies and says he has a lot of work, and collects even more pages for his fact book - twenty seven new pages, in fact.

Because of this, he never finds out about the almost Gringotts robbery that occurred in his birthday, and remains blissfully uninterested about what lies in the 3rd floor corridor.

When Harry wakes up on Halloween, he finds himself in an empty dormitory, which is strange, as it is only quarter to six and he always wakes up before the other boys. Shrugging it off as overabundant Halloween excitement, he begins to get changed and packs his bag for the day ahead. He is about to leave the blue room when he realizes he can't find any of his shoes. Not his school ones, nor his trainers. As if that isn't bad enough, he can't find his socks; not even the repulsive mustard ones that used to belong to Uncle Vernon.

He gives a final, thorough check of the dormitory, and the missing feet-related items continue to elude him. Sighing, he resigns himself to a day of cold soles and laughter. He can't conjure a pair for himself, and he's certainly not going to ask anyone else to do it for him. No, he decides, it's better to seem as if I have done this on purpose than the alternative.

So he leaves with his head held high, feet slowly growing paler and paler in the harsh Scottish weather. As suspected, the younger years guffaw wickedly at him, the older years roll their eyes and the teachers just don't notice (and they probably don't care, a voice whispers in his head).

He is just thankful that he doesn't have Herbology today.

So Harry spends the whole day pretending that his feel were not leisurely chilling, that everything is fine, and yes, Su Li, I'm fine, everything is just great and yes I know I'm not wearing anything on my feet and can we please get back to taking notes as I really don't want to be caught talking and Charms is an important subject and for Pete's sake just _leave me alone_!

After the last lesson, Harry decides to skip the Halloween feast (he never really liked Halloween, besides from the obvious reasons) to look for his shoes and socks, because they really are quite important.

He eventually finds them wedged behind a statue of a grinning wizard on the fifth floor, which he finds to be peculiar, as he has no recollection of dumping all of his foot-related items behind a slightly creepy statue.

Maybe he sleep-walks.

Checking the time on his watch, he decides to retreat back up to the relative safety of Ravenclaw Tower. He's not particularly hungry, and he has homework to do.

The weeks leading up to Christmas arrive in a flurry of Christmas carols, mistletoe and snow. People are exchanging gifts and sweets, whilst Harry holes himself in his dorm. He has no one to exchange gifts with, and he has never really gotten to celebrate Christmas, what with being locked in a cupboard and all; which is why it's such a surprise that when he wakes up to an empty, silent dormitory on Christmas, there is a present at the base of his bed. He cautiously creeps over to it, and carefully undoes the present. It's not done up with masking tape or glue, so it must be from someone whom has either grown up in the wizarding world, or someone whom has been involved in it for so long he has foregone the muggle ways for a more hassle-free alternative. Or maybe both.

He undoes it, and he feels something that feels like liquid silk roll over his fingers and glide to the floor. A note, written in loopy, narrow writing lands on top of it, and Harry picks it up and reads it, before putting both the strange material and the note in the depths of his trunk, before locking it firmly and kicking it for good measure, seriously hurting his toe in the process.

He doesn't want anything that once belonged to his father.

**Thank you for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2 - Curiosity

**Disclaimer – as much as I am loath to admit it, I do not own the Harry Potter franchise.**

**Just a warning - there are some gory scenes later on in the chapter.**

The rest of the Christmas holidays passed by quickly, and before he knew it, the hallowed halls of Hogwarts were once again filled with students, all in high spirits. This meant that Harry could no longer use the common room to study, which was quite the disappointment, as he had rather enjoyed sitting in the large, high-backed armchairs the colour of the midnight sky, basking in the heat of the enchanted azure-coloured fire. But he made do with the slightly uncomfortable, overstuffed library chairs, as was his wont, because what else was he meant to do?

His summary book had now reached the landmark of 100 entries, and he celebrated by discreetly stealing a cake from the Hufflepuff table at dinner; he spent the rest of the night reading and gouging himself on the sweet food, his covers pulled up over his head with only the light of his lumos spell to guide his eyes towards the book and his wandering hand towards the decadent Victoria Sponge. For some reason, the food on the Hufflepuff table tended to taste better than the Ravenclaw tables own fare.

The first lesson he had after term officially started was Transfiguration, in which they were trying to change the matches they had changed into needles _back_ into matches, which was a bit pointless in Harry's mind. Why transfigure something just to change it back? But of course, if Harry had even wanted to question the flawed logic behind the task at hand, he wouldn't have said anything, because Harry rarely talks nowadays. He remembers being asked a question in Astronomy, and how rough and hoarse his voice had sounded, how he had almost flinched at the strangers voice that left his mouth in the place of his usual smooth cadence. Unsurprisingly, no one had given his unnaturally croaky voice a second glance, except from _Weasley_, who glanced at him weirdly before being distracted by Neville's hand tugging on his robes.

Harry is only just realising how much he hates Neville.

When he goes down for breakfast one morning, this time without his watch or glasses - he really should stop losing his stuff - and sits down at the Ravenclaw table, he munches on a slice of toast and gives the room what appears to be a casual glance (even though everything seems to be an indistinct blur, he can still make out big things), but is actually something very different.

On the Slytherin table, the students sit in tight-knit groups centred around the middle of the table. The Hufflepuffs are more spread out over their table, but are still close together. The Gryffindors are spread out over the table, no real clumps of of students, everyone just sitting next to their friends, not caring who sits near them as long as they do not disturb the Gryffindors meals (typical) and/or conversation. The Ravenclaws are spread out similar to the Gryffindors, but if they don't want you to sit in the vicinity of them, they will let you know.

Harry knows this from personal experience.

He finds that these seating habits reveal a lot about the houses. Slytherin is about fraternity, sticking with ones comrades, no matter the personal differences. Hufflepuffs are very much the same, except that Hufflepuffs tend to lack the self-confidence and group thinking that Slytherins seem to have in abundance, making them act a bit like sheep, just following the crowd. He has no doubts that Gryffindor house, whilst close to those who possess the house traits of bravery that are coveted in the house of the lions, will quite readily drop you if you show a hint of cunning or a smidgen of a desire for a discussion on the theory of the validity of the pure blood claims, and will just as easily envelop you back into the fold. Ravenclaw house, however, has only the basest amount of hours solidarity. The Ravenclaws are viciously competitive, even more so in their studies; they are constantly clamouring to be best in what they do, and they have no qualms about cheating, lying or snitching on even the closest of friends to excel. Whilst Ravenclaws are still quite proud of their house - like at quidditch games and the House Cup, they think as individuals and only for themselves. There is almost no group solidarity at the house swathed in blue and bronze.

Harry quickly finishes his toast, vague thoughts of getting a spare pair of glasses or contacts floating around in his mind.

He finds his missing items after a week of fruitless searching, on the last few days of February. They were neatly tucked behind the books on healing plants in the library, and when Harry finds them he nearly weeps in relief. He slips his glasses up his nose and buckles his watch onto his wrist, glances at the books his things were lost behind and mentally shrugs. Why not?

He takes the books and reads them, and then summarises them. He had forgotten how... Therapeutically boring this familiar action can be, and he finds himself feeling surprised when he realises that he had actually missed this the past week. It is dull and bland yet offers a strange sense of stability, however odd that sounds, because he has never had anything in his life before to keep him anchored; it seems that his studies are now his rock. He cannot help thinking that he lives a very sad life.

When he goes to return the books to their place, he glances some sixth years pointing and laughing at his hair, which was particularly wild and rambunctious today, from behind a bookshelf. He goes back to where he was sitting, and sees a group of much older students lounging at the table he had been at. That was the best table in the library, hidden in an alcove of books where Madame Pince could not see you and tell you off for putting a quill too near a book. The worst thing of all was that these students were not even studying! They were just slumped in the seats, murmuring to each other and occasionally breaking out in quiet giggles. He has half a mind to storm up to them and demand they leave, but Harry knows that if he does that it will spread through the school like a wildfire, and he will be even more ostracised than before. So he sighs and trudges to a table near the restricted section.

The thought that maybe the other students sat at his table in purpose never crossed his mind.

When Harry decides to take a walk outside on a blustery March afternoon, he comes across the Great Lake. He stares into its depths, but all he could see was an indistinct, large shadow in its murky depths. He then turns around and sees the Forbidden Forest. Glancing around uneasily, he sees no one paying any attention to him (they're all on the way to lessons, and no one pays attention to him except to tease and belittle him), so he slips between the trees and into the Forest. Besides, he is ever so curious to see what resides in the Forest.

Stumbling through the thick, knotted land under his feet, he slips and trudges his way towards a large clearing. Sitting down, he fishes a carefully wrapped sandwich out of his bag - a BTL - and starts to munch leisurely on his meagre dinner.

About a third of the way through his sandwich, Harry feels rather than sees a large shadow fall over his body. Snapping his head up rapidly, he sees the thin, skeletal bodies of what appears to be winged horses. Harry has only ever seen these once, and that was a crudely drawn diagram in a weathered old book. The drawing does not show their mournful beauty, nor their almost ethereal grace. Thestrals.

He wonders about how he can see one, and racks his brain to think of who he saw die. The only people he can think of are his parents, and he is wondering how that counts when his breath catches in his neck and something clicks in his brain.

It was a blistering August day, and his uncle had been in a particularly bad mood one night (something about a failed drills sale – Harry hadn't really cared) and when he saw Hedwig majestically swoop in the open kitchen windows, a dead vole clutched in her beak, something in him had snapped. He didn't want the _flying vermin_ in his house, leaving a trail of feathers, excrement and mess in its wake and he certainly didn't like being woken up in the wee hours of the morning by that _infernal bird's_ racket, regardless of the fact that owls were nocturnal. So, he reached out, grabbed the things feathery neck and wrung it, ignoring the intrigued look on his sons face, the devastated expression on his nephews face (though he didn't really care) and the owls desperate, muted screeches of pain. After a while, the fowl went still in his stubby fingers, a wet choking sound wrenched itself from the creatures throat before it shuddered and blood began to pour out of the animals beak, over Uncle Vernon's hands (staining them red) and onto Aunt Petunia's usually perfect tile floor, the thick, dark red liquid seeping through the gaps between the tiles and staining the white plaster a light pink.

It was at that moment that Aunt Petunia trotted into the kitchen and let out a shrill scream at the sight her husband made. Dropping the bird quickly, he had hurried over to her. Harry, his mind still half in shock, scooped up her snowy white carrion and rushed outside, tears pouring down his face as he stared at his companion in sorrow. Silently crying, he wrapped her in a spare sheet of tarp found in the shed, gently put her down in the hut, locked the shack door and sprinted upstairs to get the corpses dried blood off of his arms.

The next day he had held a shoddy, rushed funeral, as it was early morning and he did not want to get caught. He had wept unashamedly as he had lowered the owl into the hole he had dug in the next door neighbour's garden – if Aunt Petunia noticed anything different in her prized garden, and she would, he would be punished.

Jerking out of his grief-ridden reminisces, he glances back up at the thestral, whom he gathers had been attracted to him by the meat in his sandwich. He had lost his appetite thinking about the death of his beloved pet, so he threw the rest of his sandwich to the emaciated being, seeing a few more waifish figures materialise from the shadows to share his sandwich. Leaning back, he absently pats one on the head, just as it begins to lick his face. Harry giggles. He hasn't giggled in such a long time, and it felt nice to let his worries fall away for a bit in front of these creatures and just enjoy the company of the thestrals.

Carefully exiting the Forbidden Forest, he begins to walk back to the castle when he hears Snape's voice ring out from the edge of the woodland. He hears Quirrel's stammering, quavering voice reply timidly, and he bolts up and sprints as quietly as he can to the castle. He doesn't want to get in trouble for being where he shouldn't be. It is called the Forbidden Forest for a reason.

**Thanks for reading this chapter! I have had a few people mention Luna, so I am pleased to say that she will be joining Harry in his second year.**


	3. Chapter 3 - Creativity

**Disclaimer – as said before, I do not own Harry Potter. Oh, the injustice!**

Harry is woken up on an early April morning by a sudden draught that breezed across his face and the sound of whispered giggles. He is about to get up and ask what is going on, when he hears the sound of his trunk being opened. Feigning sleep, he listens.

"Shh! You'll wake him!" One voice hisses, and the rest immediately silence.

"So, what is it this time?" Another voice that sounds suspiciously like Terry's murmurs, a muffled snicker leaving his mouth.

"Er... Let's go for the... Textbooks! Those are important, right? Hah!" Stephens's voice quietly crows, and is met with triumphant agreements.

"Let's put them in the Quidditch stands, he never goes to games! I doubt the loser even knows where the pitch is!" Michael's voice sneers, malice laced throughout his voice and words.

After they all leave, Harry lies in bed for a few more inured, before getting up to trip himself on the stairs. He has a plan.

After deliberately falling down the long, winding stone steps of the tower, he really wishes he hadn't, as his left leg screams out in pain every time he even nudges it. However, it is important that he makes it to the hospital wing for his plan to succeed. So, gritting his teeth and whimpering on every other step, he drags himself down to the hospital wing, privately thinking that this was the stupidest thing he had ever done.

When he gets to the unnaturally sterile room, Madame Pomfrey takes one look at him and screeches. She ushers him over to a bed, and once she has done her diagnostic, she turned to Harry and comments that if it were a cleaner break, she would have been able to heal it instantly, but seeing as it was quite severe and broken in many places, he would have to stay in the hospital wing for a few days, all whilst giving him a scolding, reproachful look. He quickly nodded, careful to not seem too happy at his predicament. Looking berated, he bowed his head, fighting the smirk that was threatening to overcome his face. Everything was going right.

After she bandaged his leg with one clean, efficient spell, he was sent to lie on one of the beds with his left leg propped up. After about half an hour of matronly dithering, Madame Pomfrey retired to her office. Harry, after making sure she was sufficiently distracted, hobbled around the room, collecting 3 pillows and arranging them under his covers to make it look like he was asleep. Adding a mop head he had found in Filch's cupboard on the way to the hospital wing and charmed black, he carefully put it at the head of the pillows. He made an educated guess that Madame Ponfrey had a lot of budgeting to do for the next school year and consequently would only glance up at his bed occasionally to check he was still in it, therefore seeing the 'sleeping' Harry and leaving him alone. This method of deception was a well known practice in the Muggle world, so he doubted that wizards would have picked up on it. He was very glad that Ponfrey had bandaged his leg, as it meant that it didn't hurt so much to walk.

And he had a lot of walking to do.

Thankfully, when he arrived back at Ravenclaw tower after spending a couple of minutes guessing the answer to the riddle, the common room was empty. He guessed most of the upper years were revising for the upcoming OWLS and NEWTS in the library, which was good news for him. He rushed up to the 5th year boys' dormitory, wincing as the smell of hair gel and toothpaste hit his sinuses. Finding the right trunk, he rifled through it before he found what he was looking for and beamed.

He had heard the boy bragging to his friends one dinner about the books of curses his older sister had sent him, and how they were amazing beyond belief. One of his friends had asked him what spells were in the book, and he told the other boy that there was one on there that made your hair turn to feathers, the colour of your choice, and the other boys had looked invidiously at him. Harry knew that this book had what he wanted in it.

After finding the perfect spell, he took his spare roll of parchment out of his bag (you never know when you'll need it) and jotted down the incantation, the wand movement and the spells purpose. Replacing the book so that there was no evidence of him being there, he gives the room a cursory glance. Smiling wolfishly, he staggered to his dorm room, performed the spell on his trunk and other important areas like his bed drapes and bedside table, before putting the parchment carefully under his mattress and stumbling back to the hospital wing.

He was quite exhausted when he reached the white walled room. As well as his leg being broken, he had run up and back from Ravenclaw tower, which was quite a long way away. When he sees the pillow Harry, he noiselessly creeps towards the bed and hurriedly puts the pillows back where they belong and puts the mop head in his bag, under his History of Magic essay. You never know when it might be useful. Easing himself into the bed, he finds himself falling onto a deep and easy sleep within moments of him closing his eye, finally letting the hurt feeling and betrayed emotions wash over him, but this time there is a layer of amusement coating those bitter feelings. He can't wait to see the results of his little revenge prank.

He stays in the Hospital wing for another few days, downing repulsive potions and staving off boredom by trying to read his palms the Muggle way. He was regretting his plan now, as this waiting was the only part he had overlooked and now he was terribly bored. He was thankful that the jinx he had put on his things was a slow-acting one, so he wouldn't miss his handiwork.

Finally, after nearly a full week stuck in the hospital wing, he was let out by Madame Pomfrey. The first thing he did was go to the Quidditch Pitch and get his textbooks. It was, indeed, the first time he had been there, and he was almost overawed by the sheer size of the arena and the strange rings that looked a bit like bubble-blowing sticks before remembering his textbooks. They were wedged under some seats in the Gryffindor stands, and he was ceaselessly grateful that it had not rained. It seemed that at least the elements were on his side.

He swiftly ran down the steps, onto the pitch and out of the stadium. Ignoring the strange looks he garnered (he had been out of school for a week, after all) and continuing on his way, he made his way to his dorm room. He was not required to attend lessons today, and he very almost chucked all his books on the floor and flung himself on his bed when he saw something that stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was diminutive and wrinkly, with green-grey coloured skin. It had large, bulbous eyes and a rather squashed nose. The thing's ears were long and conical, and its feet were large and bare. It was wearing a tea-towel with the Hogwarts logo on it. Losing control of his mouth for a second, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, which unfortunately was –

"What on earth are you?"

"I is Felly. Felly the house elf. I is very sorry, sir! Felly isn't supposed to be seen!" the creature, apparently a house elf (whatever that is) stuttered, panicking. What about, Harry hadn't the faintest.

"No, it's... fine? Um, excuse me, but what's a house elf?"

The thing – Felly – beamed at him and trilled

"Young Raven is so polite! A house elf is likes me. I serve witches and wizards! Do whatever they say, we do! But little Felly must go. Felly wasn't meant to be seen, that's why she cleans during the day. Please, sir just forgets Felly was here 'cos she must go back to the kitchens now."

"Wait! You can get to the kitchens?" Harry asked, befuddled.

"Yup! The young Raven just has to go to the basement and tickle the pear! Hogwarts has many more secrets than justs that, sir. There be a room on the seventh floor that gives yous whatever you wants, and a statue on the third floor that leads ya to the village outside of Hogwarts!" and with those words of wisdom, the eccentric little house elf – Felly - vanished with a loud _pop_.

Harry stared, dropped his books in his trunk, and fled the dormitory. He had a kitchen to find.

Couldn't be too hard, right?

The first stage wasn't too hard, as he just followed some Hufflepuffs to the lower levels of the castle. It was very different to the dungeons, he thinks, as it is all quite homey and there is no slime or mildew in sight. He starts to search around for a pear – which sounds quite ridiculous – and decides after an undetermined period of time that feels like at least a couple of hours that house elves are some of the most annoying things he's ever had the misfortune to meet. And considering the Dursleys, that is quite a hard title to take.

After finding a secret passage behind a tapestry depicting a young maiden singing by tugging at it experimentally, his exasperation at Felly disappears almost instantaneously. So _this_ is what she meant!

There is a corridor lined with paintings, most of which feature a pear. Chuckling, he methodically tickles the pears on the pieces of art. About two thirds of the way down the passageway, he meets a picture of a bowl of fruit, he reaches out to tickle the pear and almost recoils back when the pear giggles and morphs into a green, fuzzy door handle. Gripping it tentatively, he opens the door and only has a second to take in the high ceiling, long tables and various kitchen implements dotted around the massive room before he is nearly bowled over by a stampede of house elves. He hears Felly distantly chanting that the young Raven came and that he shouldn't be here, before the rest of the elves take up the chant too and usher him to a side table. One of them, one that's eyes are slightly smaller than Felly's, but with larger ears starts to talk to him, asking whether he wants some ice cream or biscuits.

And Harry comes to a decision that he really likes these strange little things.

To his immense displeasure, they still call him young Raven every time he goes (which is most mealtimes), despite his constant pleading not to. But, they are kind and courteous to him, and fuss over how skinny he is and how his hair is so tangled, so he doesn't really mind.

It's been a week since Harry laid his vengeance, and he is half relieved and half disappointed that it had not been set off yet. More than anything, he wants to see the looks of surprise on his roommates faces when their –

He stops, snickering to himself, which attracts him some weird looks from his classmates, which is understandable, as they are in History of Magic.

Looking back down at his blank sheet of parchment, he sighs and begins taking notes. There's nothing better to do.

Harry seems to have a shadow. A shadow called Albus Dumbledore.

Wherever he goes, it appears the legendary head teacher is always there, whether it's checking out a book from the library on the properties of devil's snare, or sweeping down hallways, smiling benevolently and offering lemon drops to any student he passes. Not one accepts the offer, instead opting to stare bemusedly at the man.

Harry decides to try to avoid Dumbledore. Something about the man puts him on edge.

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! **


	4. Chapter 4 - Individuality

**Disclaimer – Harry Potter is not mine.**

The last weeks of term passed with an almost startling sluggishness. The only things of particular concern were the end of year tests, which Harry was sure he did not completely fail. And, of course, the results of his prank.

Once again, Harry had woken up to find his bedding, pillows and even the mattress cover (which he was astounded at – how could they have got the _mattress cover_ without him knowing?) gone. After asking one of the house elves to find it for him, as he had classes, Harry had waited with bated breath and a slight smirk to see the results.

The first changes were gradual – the enlargement of Michael's ears, the lengthening of Terry's nose, the engorgement of Kevin's forehead. You see, the spell that he had chosen was a slow acting one that turned people's heads into overly large caricatures of their appearance, often making the head swell to over three times its original size. It got so bad that in Charms, no one could work from laughter at the five boys affected – Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, Terry Boot, Kevin Entwhistle and Stephen Cornfoot – when their features all suddenly started to get 'rubbed out' and drawn back in place. They were the laughing stock of the school for weeks.

This happened a few times before the boys associated the events with the stealing of Harrys' things. They were sure that Harry would not be capable of such charmwork, which led to them thinking that his bead was... haunted.

Harry still sniggers when he thinks about it.

But at least they had stopped taking his things.

But even more interesting than his retribution was the desperate measures that Headmaster Dumbledore was resorting to. He had been seeking Harry out, trying to make it seem like an accident, and then saying 'cryptic' things in a very loud voice, such as how to get past devil's snare and how to break flying enchantments with a slightly desperate look on his face. He had even gone so far as to shout-

"THERE IS A CERBERUS IN THE SCHOOL!"

In the middle of the library.

Evidently, word had gotten out about the Cerberus incident, as the next day Flitwick, voice charmed with a _Sonorus_, had told all students to pack their belongings and be ready to leave at ten 'o' clock, as the school was under inspection. Instantly, there was screaming and demands to know what was going on. Harry had stood at the sink, washing his hands, his mind going blank.

They were going to close down Hogwarts?

Slowly making his way back to his dorm room, he threw on his muggle clothing and gave a half-hearted attempt to his hair under control. He packed in a flurry, went to breakfast and sat alone amidst worried and slightly giddy speculation. When the owls swooped in, almost every eye drawn to their forms, with newspapers, the student body went mad, clamouring for a glance at one of the newspapers. The front covers of them all had the same title-

_**Dangerous Beasts Threatening Our Youths?**_

_By Melinda Wilherm_

_In a shocking turn of events taking place just yesterday, the Ministry were inundated by over twenty anonymous tips that there was a Cerberus at the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They all reported that Albus Dumbledore (__Order of Merlin first class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot) had announced that one of the highly dangerous three headed beasts was laying somewhere in the selfsame facility that the majority of the Wizarding Community of the British Isles adolescents are being educated._

_Following these tips, the Ministry of Magic has made the decision to close down the school for the remainder of the term and do a thorough search of the castle._

_Augustus Longbottom was heard saying "This is an abomination! How can they put a violent, brutish animal in the same institute as the future of the Wizarding World?"_

_Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin first class, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot) was unavailable for comment._

_What will the Ministry inspection entail? What was the Headmaster thinking? But, most importantly, what will happen to Hogwarts?_

Making his way back to his compartment, Harry heard sniffling coming from behind him. Turning around, he caught sight of a bushy haired girl with overly large front teeth (wasn't her name Heather or something?). Catching sight of him, she wiped furiously at red rimmed eyes and snapped-

"Weren't you ever taught that it's rude to stare, Harry Potter?"

Harry, affronted and more than a bit enraged at Hogwart's impending closure, sniped back-

"At least I was taught better manners than you."

"Well I never!" She responded, obviously angered, and as he turned back the way he was heading, she began in a holier-than-thou tone,

"You shouldn't have done that to the other Ravenclaws, you know. It's not like they did anything to you. Knowing your reputation, they almost certainly just tried to be friends with you, and you, the vicious, petulant little boy that you are, proba – arrgh!"

Harry, his wand stuck under her chin, hissed,

"Say one more word. I _dare_ you."

She began whimpering, head whipping from side to side, trying to find someone to help. Pocketing his wand, he walked back to his empty compartment.

The Dursleys were not happy when Harry turned up on their doorstep, having got a cab from Kings cross. He was forced in his room, the doors locked from the outside and the windows casting sharp shadows made by bars across his room.

It was a shock when the day after he arrived at the Dursleys, two owls flew through his window. One was an acceptation letter to Beauxbatons; the other to Durmstrang. After staring at the letters for a few minutes, he hastily writes an acception letter to Beauxbatons and a declination one to Durmstrang. He's going to need somewhere to go to school if Hogwarts does close down, and he doesn't speak Bulgarian.

Harry does endless chores by day, and during the night, he catches up on his French. It goes in this endless cycle for almost the whole summer, with Harry only getting a couple hours sleep. He has a growth spurt. He gets old cast offs from Dudley. He gets punched and kicked by Dudley. He doesn't get enough food. He slowly fades away.

He gets no letter from Hogwarts.

It was three days until he started at Beauxbatons, and Harry was more like a wraith than a human. His growth spurt had left him with long limbs (he had noted with some smugness that he was taller than Dudley, and Dudley, whilst extremely fat, was not short) and the gangly ungracefulness that came with it. Along with his pale skin and luminescent green eyes, Harry's appearance, whilst once quite anaesthetically pleasing, was now unsettling. He was still getting used to his excessively elongated appendages, which caused him to nearly trip over a loose paving slab when he turned around to get some pruning shears whilst gardening and instead saw a man.

This man wore lavender robes, and sported almost blindingly white teeth. His hair, wavy and obviously curled, glinted a bright blonde in the sunlight. Blue eyes winked mischievously at him, almost like they had just shared a secret or conspired some grand scheme together. He opened his mouth, and almost warbled,

"Hello there, Mr Potter! Or may I call you Harry?" without even waiting for Harry to answer, he continued, "I'm, as I'm sure you already know, Gilderoy Lockhart! But, between you and me, I wouldn't advise you calling me Gilderoy! I am going to be your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, after all!" He started chortling, like he had just told a particularly funny joke. Harry, finding his voice, questioned,

"Sir, may I ask what happened to Professor Quirrel?"

"Oh, that was nasty business. It turned out he was being possessed! Ha! Of course, if I had been there, I could have driven the demon out, but alas, it was not to be. Now, come on Harry, let's go and get your Hogwarts stuff! Now, where's your room?"

"Wait, Hogwarts is still open? But... But I'm meant to be going to Beauxbatons!"

"Oh, don't you worry your little head about that. It's all sorted! Now, where's your room? I don't have all day, you know! I am Gilder – oops,_ Professor_ Lockhart after all!"

"But, but I had been learning French!"

"Well, it's always good to know another language!"

And with that, Lockhart gave Harry a look. Sighing, he trudged into the kitchen, not meeting Aunt Petunia's eye as she stared at the man behind him.

Reaching his room, Lockhart didn't even give the locks on the _outside_ of the door a second glance before sweeping in and exclaiming,

"Well, Harry, I like the Azkaban-esque vibe you've gone for in here," lowering his voice guilefully, he persisted, "But it went out of style a couple hundred years ago. But, that's not for you to know, is it? Now, pack all of your belongings and get your new school things, shall we?"

Whilst shopping by himself – Lockhart was being excessively admired over in the Leaky Cauldron – he saw family of red-heads. _Weasleys_. He also saw the Malfoys.

This should be fun.

_Weasley_ and, presumably, his little sister, were making their way to the Leaky Cauldron, the mother patting her hair and smoothing down her tatty robes every few seconds. The Malfoys stopped in front of the family, and Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley traded insults, their tongues getting more barbed and words getting wickeder every second. The children swapped weak threats and curses until Mr Malfoy swooped over to Draco, put his hand on his son's shoulder and said something so unforgivable in the eyes of the eyes of the Weasley patriarch that he, for lack of a better word, jumped Mr Malfoy.

In the following brawl, no one noticed Mr Malfoy;s hand glide over their youngest members cauldron and drop something leather bound into it, right between the pages of a book, but Harry did.

Harry walked over to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. He was hungry.

**Thanks for reading!**

**The reason that Dobby isn't featured is that no one knew that Hogwarts was to be reopened until the day seen here, so Lucius's plan was of the spur of the moment variety, instead of planned like in CoS, meaning Dobby had no idea. **

**This will not be a HarryxGinny story.**


	5. Chapter 5 - Understanding

**Disclaimer – I own nothing of the Harry Potter franchise.**

Harry spends the first week of the new term going to lessons, sulking in his dorm room, and writing letters in the library.

He was writing letters to the headmistress of Beauxbatons – Madame Maxime – to ask to transfer to Beauxbatons. Regardless of the camaraderie he felt with Hogwarts (just not the inhabitants), he was curious to know why he had been shuttled off to Hogwarts without even a questioning glance thrown his way by the French school.

When he was not writing letters, he was continuing with his little book. Harry had exactly two hundred and thirty nine entries in his book, and although he was still sneered upon because of it, he didn't mind. He was glad for it now, as it meant that it gave him an advantage over his peers. He had also found that knowing even the basest information on how magic worked helped him to perform enchantments quicker and master them in a very short period of time.

Except for this one spell.

"Accio," he muttered, "Accio. Accio. Accio."

But the quill he was practicing on stayed limp and still on the table, as it had done all morning, and the night before. It was as if the spell had something against him.

Harry snorted.

But the short lived amusement soon turned to annoyance, yet again, and he gave his wand a particularly ferocious jab and consequently caused the quill to disintegrate into ash.

Great. He couldn't do the spell, _and_ he and lost a quill.

But what he didn't see was a pale pair of large grey eyes staring at him from a gap in the bookshelves.

It was morning, and Harry was sitting in the Great Hall, which was a rare sight, as he usually ate in the kitchens.

The reason he was sitting there, munching on toast, was the post. He had used one of the school owls (one that most definitely did not remind him of Hedwig in any way) to get his best letter to France. Whilst he appreciated and understood that the owl had an extremely improbable chance of reaching France and coming back in less than a day, apprehension and a childish sense of glee – he was getting his first proper letter! (The Hogwarts one didn't count, as he was given it) – kept him awake half the night, and he had almost skipped down to breakfast.

So when he heard the owls swoop in, his head snapped up, and to his astonishment, there was the school owl, flying towards him. The owl dropped the letter on his empty plate, took a sip of the water out of his goblet, ruffled it's tawny feathers self-importantly, and glided off to the Owlery to do... whatever owls do, he presumed, before tearing into the tightly wrapped scroll like a savage animal.

Scanning over the letter, he noted several things, the most important saying that his _grades_, of all things, were not good enough for him to transfer. Now, that, he knew to be utter rubbish. He had gotten some of the best bloody grades in the whole year! He also saw that the handwriting and the signature of this letter did not match the one he had gotten from Madame Maxime at the beginning of the summer. Sure, it was a good fake, and the signature was very well done, but some things did not match up. The tail of the g was too long, and the letters were not so loopy and curly. In fact, the more he thought about it, it was comparable to the handwriting on the note he had gotten along with that thrice-damned cloak. Finally, he realized that the parchment type was not the same. This parchment was thicker and more tan, whilst the one he had received had been flimsier, paler, and had smelt slightly of roses.

It looked like someone had intercepted his mail.

Harry had written several more letters, but he had gotten the same reply back, on the same parchment, written with the same hand. They were all fakes, and Harry had no idea how to get a proper one to the school, so he stopped trying.

At least for a while, anyway.

So, this was what he was thinking about as he trekked his way further into the forest, his mind desperately not focusing on what was in the pouch slung across his body. He thought he heard a rustling behind him at one point, and when he had whipped around, he had thought he saw a ghost of something incredibly bright and shiny the colour of slivery gold, if that was a colour. Glancing around suspiciously for a few seconds, he put it down to a trick of the moonlight and the late hour, before going on his way again.

He stopped at a clearing, the flat grey rock under his feet glinting ominously. Taking off his shoes, he stepped onto the rock, his eyes finally drifting to the pouch. Sighing, he plunged his hand deep inside the bag, and nearly recoiled when he felt the slimy, wet, raw meat. Pulling it out of the container, he chucked it onto the floor near his feet and sat down.

He didn't need to wait long, as after a few minutes, a thestral slinked out of the shadows, its gaze focussed on Harry's hand. Harry held out his hand, and the thestral proceeded to lick the blood off of it, making Harry smile at the feel of the willowy creatures tongue. Once it was all gone, the thestral started tearing the meat apart, hardly noticing then more thestrals came, or when they sprayed Harry with blood.

Harry didn't mind either.

As Harry emptied the bag of five slabs of bloody meat onto the floor, more thestrals came, which meant that Harry almost missed the faint words he heard. Straining his ears, he turned around – once again seeing that silvery-gold blur – and his eyes zeroed in on the source of the vernacular.

It was a snake.

In fact, it was an adder snake, which he had learnt about in primary school (don't let it bite you!), with a black and white zigzag pattern across its scales and red eyes. It spoke with a Scottish accent, which was absurd, as this was a snake, but the s sounds were elongated and it sounded quite sibilant.

It caught sight of him, and uncurled itself and began to talk-

"Who is this? The little human is out late... why is he here?"

"Hello," Harry tried, "If you can understand this, please don't bite me."

The snake, which had been muttering furiously about petty little humans, stopped violently and let out a surprised little hiss, and said slowly,

"You speak the language of the snake?"

Harry shook his head and replied

"No; I'm speaking English... at least, I think I am. How can I speak a language without knowing it?"

The snake let out a breathy sound, and Harry realised it was laughing.

"Those with the ability to speak Parseltongue are born; it cannot be learnt, " the snake commented, slithering up Harry's leg and emerging around his shoulders, not noticing Harry's petrified face "My name is Asmodeus, little Raven."

Harry, whom had been stock-still and fearful until this point, felt the old annoyance flood his system again.

"Why are you calling me that? I am not a raven!"

"What an astute observation," Asmodeus drawled, flicking his tail close to Harry's ear, "But, you do have hair the colour of the down of a raven."

Harry groaned.

Asmodeus rode around Harry's shoulders all the way back to the castle, and slithered under his robes when they entered the draughty halls, complaining that it was too cold when Harry hissed at him to get out. They began the trek up to Ravenclaw Tower, but Harry abruptly stopped in the middle of the third floor corridor. Ignoring the whinging from the snake (of which he was still mightily scared), he scrambled behind a suit of armour and patted it on the back when it didn't creak around to stare at him.

Only seconds later, Harry saw two red-headed boys gallop towards the statue of the one eyed witch... The same one, Harry realised, as Felly had told him there was a passage behind. Watching the two boys whom he had identified as the Weasley twins as they tapped the statue with their wands and whispered a word beginning with a D. To his surprise, the statue opened up and the two boys snaked through, the small closing sealing shut behind them.

D... D... D...

Harry tried to think of all the unlocking spells he knew that began with a D, which, to be honest, there were none of. Despite all of his hard work, this one was stumping him. He spent the whole night sitting on his bed, trying to uncover the answer in some hitherto unknown and unexplored realm of his mind.

Asmodeus was no help, as snakes did not have god hearing and he kept on saying words like 'dismal' and 'dandelion' when Harry began to think out loud. Harry then chucked a pillow at him, causing him to hiss indignantly and slither up the bed posts to rest on the top of the four posted bed.

This lead to Harry being very tired and annoyed the next day, as Asmodius would not come down, regardless of how much he apologised.

Harry soon realised that this was not the best mood to be in when in a class taught by Gilderoy Lockhart.

After quickly sitting down at the back of the class and arranging his books so he didn't have a direct view of the man, Harry then proceeded to sink as low as his chair let him go.

The whole lesson was Lockhart blundering and blustering through the first ten minutes, smiling roguishly and winking every few minutes before handing out a sheet of parchment, on which there were fifty four questions.

All about him.

Harry read over the sheet, his eyes widening as he read on. He looked up at Lockhart, only to see him smiling benignly at the rude girl with big teeth (Heather?) as she frantically scribbled the answers down. Rolling his eyes, he put down random answers. He hadn't even picked up the books, let alone read them.

After Lockhart had read out the scores, Harry was beginning to doubt his reasoning behind coming back to Hogwarts. Sure, it was his first magical school, but they had this bumbling fool of a professor teaching.

And then, to put the icing on the cake, he released some Cornish Pixies.

Harry was sat in the library, researching unlocking spells when he heard a faint cough behind him. Putting his quill down, he was faced with a small blonde girl with silvery-gold (where had he seen that before?) coloured hair and big, slightly bulbous grey eyes. Her blue and bronze school jumper was already frayed, and she had earrings made out of some burgundy material. She swayed dreamily, eyes unfocused. Opening her mouth, she trilled –

"Hello, Harry Potter. Can you help me find my shoes?"

**Hey! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**Also, I'm sorry for the late update. A lot has been going on this week, which left me with little time to write, and when I did, I wasn't happy with it, so I started over.**


	6. Chapter 6 - Discretion

**Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter**

Being friends with Luna was an experience. She wasn't there for the majority of the time (She hadn't told and Harry hadn't asked), but when she was there, there was always something to do, whether it be looking for Mourning Hiloys in the astronomy tower, which always made Harry feel very daring, because they weren't allowed in the tower after lessons – even though it was almost a rite of passage amongst the inhabitants of the old castle, or Harry teaching Luna how to skip rocks, because, surprisingly, she didn't know how to.

Despite the fact that Harry spent most of his spare time that was not spent in the library or the kitchens with her, he knew next to nothing about her. All he really knew was that her name was Luna, she was eleven and she lived with her father, whom she called _daddy_. But then, he supposes, she knows even less about him – only that his name is Harry and that he is twelve.

He is unwilling to tell her more.

Classes are dreadfully boring, as Harry has already independently studied most of the subjects done. But his summary book has come in useful, as he often just takes what he was written in it and uses it for essays. And no, he tells Lisa, you cannot copy it.

And in his head, he thinks of all the things he could have said, words that would have made her laugh and grin instead of glare at him.

But he doesn't say them, because he has Luna now.

Doesn't he?

Lockhart may have been the worst teacher, but McGonagall has beaten him at discourteousness. Last year, she was just politely befuddled by him, but this year, it is different. Every time he gets an answer right, she will glower heatedly at him, before telling him in a curt voice-

"Well done, Mr Potter."

No house points awarded.

When Harry went to Luna, she had looked at him with half-closed eyes and a lethargic smile and had said-

"Well, of course not, Harry. You're not in her house."

"What?" he had whisper – shrieked, as, once again, they were in the library.

Luna, though, was not even putting the smallest modicum of effort into making her voice quiet. She merely shook her head and spoke-

"You were meant to find it, but you didn't. That's why."

Harry, whom at this point was sick of feeling gormless, snapped-

"Find what? What the bloody hell are you talking about?" In answer, he received a reprimanding squawk from Madam Pince, which went ignored by both of them. Luna was now sitting up, her eyes strangely focused, before uttering-

"Your parents."

And suddenly Madam Pince was behind them, looking ready to snatch the book on Harry's lap from him.

They left in silence.

"What do you want to be when your older, Harry?" Luna asks

Rolling over on his bed, Harry replies "The king of my own land."

Luna says nothing.

It is their first compromise.

It Halloween, and Harry is with Asmodeus in the forest. Luna had seemed strangely insistent about going to the feast, but Harry really did not like Halloween; he had declined.

He was perched in a tree, trying his hardest to make no sound, Asmodeus, for once, not groaning. Overall, he thought they were doing pretty well, considering that there was a herd of centaurs beneath him.

He had been wondering around, looking for where the thestrals lived – he truly had no idea, as they seemed to just converge in random places – when he had heard the rather ominous sound of the rumbling floor and clattering hooves that definitely did not belong to the skeletal horses. So Harry, acting on impulse and finely – tuned fight or flight reflexes (due to Uncle Vernon), shimmied up an old, gnarled tree with a faint green tinge. He huddled close to the trunk of the tree, hearing a few snippets of conversation – something about the colour red and brightness? – before he felt Asmodeus wrapped tightly around ribs.

Luckily, they galloped off to somewhere else, the wild – looking one in the front – and Asmodeus finally gave some leeway on his ribs, enabling him to breathe. The snake was wheezing about bad experiences with the men – beasts, and it took all of Harry's sheer willpower to not burst out laughing; he settled for shoving his fist in his mouth.

On the way back to the castle, Harry was in good spirits, as he planned on popping into the kitchen and slinking back up to the dorm room. However, these plans were all quashed as soon as he sneaked in through the doors of the castle, as there was not a ghost, student, teacher or pet in sight. He slowly made his way up to the Ravenclaw common room, ignoring Asmodeus's whines about being cold, but he was stopped when he heard the low murmur of voices filter up from a few floors below him. Abruptly turning around, he waited a few seconds for the staircases to realign before following the voices, which were progressively getting louder the closer he went. Reaching the right floor, he struggled to see over the heads of a few seventh years, before he spotted an opening and darted through it.

_The chamber of secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware!_

The words tumbling from Asmodeus's mouth stopped hastily, and Harry's heart dropped.

D...D!

Harry truly felt like yelping at the pure triumph he felt flowing through his veins, the smug self satisfaction clouding his brain, for he had found the spell.

Dissendium.

Asmodeus was crowing in his ear, saying in his serpentine voice that he knew it, yes, he did, and why are you laughing?

But Harry remembered that he had to go to lessons in the greenhouses, and he couldn't go and unlock the statue. Sighing, he decided to visit during the night.

Maybe his damned fathers cloak may come in useful, he pondered for a few seconds, before stomping on that thought process vigorously. There was no way in hell he'd ever use that infernal cloak.

It was night now, and Harry's heart was beating an uneven staccato against his ribs. He had decided not to wake Asmodeus, and he did not want Luna here. As brilliant as she was, this was special. It was his and his alone.

Gliding through the halls, Harry felt like a ghost, as if nothing could touch him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, reminding of him of his love for action, to be in control, and it was times like these that he really wishes he was a Gryffindor.

Finally reaching the statue of the one eyed witch, he whispered-

"Dissendium." And the statue laboriously pulled open, exposing a passageway. Stepping in, he heard it close behind him, and it was only now that he felt the adrenaline wear off and the pedantic, practical part of him began screaming at his stupidity. Ruthlessly nullifying the voice, he set off, and his wand lit with a simple lumos.

One thing Harry had not accounted for was the sheer length of the passageway. It seemed to go on for miles and miles, and Harry was once again reminded of his stupidity. He should have been all wrapped up warm, the sound of the wind around the tower lulling him to sleep. But instead he was aimlessly following a rambling corridor that he had no idea where it ended.

Harry realised that he was rather bombastic.

After an undetermined period of time that could have been minutes or hours, Harry tripped over a loose stone. Picking himself up, he made to continue walking, before he realised that he had reached a dead end. Muttering mutinously, he kicked the loose stone in his anger. It flipped open, revealing a basement filled with crates and boxes. Mortification flooded his system when he realised that it wasn't even a stone, but a door in the floor, but it soon gave way to the childish excitement inundating his head. Clambering down excitedly, he pulled on his gloves – it was really cold in there! – before he began to open the boxes, marvelling at their contents. There were mountains of Wizarding sweets, from things like chocolate frogs and sugar quills to fizzing whizbees and pepper imps. Harry, not caring, shoved a few of each into his pockets, making sure to not take too much so that they might be missed.

Harry didn't even care that he was stealing.

He arrived back at the castle in high spirits, the sky still an inky mix between blue and black. It was dotted with stars, each making out different constellations. It was a pity, he thought, that he had never been good at astronomy.

Harry began the trek back to Ravenclaw tower (and more specifically, his pleasant, toasty balmy bed swathed in covers of blue and bronze), popping sweets into his mouth along the way.

During history of magic, Harry decided that he liked sugar quills the best and he really, really did not like acid pops.

But what he didn't see were two ginger – haired boys glaring at him in the hallways.

**I would just like to apologise for two things – The lateness of this chapter, and the shortness. I am afraid real life caught up with me and I have been mildly ill, leaving me with too much to do and too little motivation.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7 - Differences

**Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter.**

The Weasleys, whilst short on money, were not short on love. And it was out of love that when his children had been little, the Weasley patriarch had been sure to instil a strong moral code in all of his brood. He would sit them down, one by one – even the twins were not together – and tell them of right and wrong, and then send them on their merry way with a warm hug, a chocolate biscuit and a half-hearted warning to not bother their siblings _too much_.

Which is why when Fred and George – whom had been following Harry Potter when he went down the passage, using the shadows just as effectively as a disillusionment charm and rubber soled plimsolls as silencing spells – were fuming.

"He-He just _took_ it!" George exclaimed, his eyes bright and accusing.

"I guess we know now why Ron went off him!" Fred replied, his cheeks stained a nasty red colour that clashed with his hair horrendously.

"So what-"

"Are we going to do about this?" Fred finished for George, and his smile was blinding.

And as they huddled over the piece of parchment, they didn't realise that they had forgotten one of Mr Weasley's rules.

Never hurt anybody who can't help it.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall was sat in her office, slowly sipping a scotch that was cradled in her hand. It was times like these; she recalled wryly, that always brought the maudlin and self–depreciating thoughts. She would first think about her husband, Elphinstone, whom had died only three years into their marriage from a Venomous Tentacula bite, and from that she would be led to thoughts of fallen friends and comrades, of family long gone, and then to the Dark Lord, which then, irrevocably, led to thoughts of the Potters.

She had not known them as well as people thought she had - after all, even after their time at Hogwarts was done, she was still viewed as their strict but fair professor, not Minerva, or, God forbid, Minnie – but this did not mean that she hadn't been fond of them in a slightly detached way; she had sighed good-naturedly whenever James had pulled a practical joke, and she had enjoyed marking Lily's essays, insightful as they were, regardless of their often foreboding length. And when they had fallen in love and gotten married, Minerva had congratulated them with a genuine smile on her face; when Harry came along, she had given him a small stuffed lion. And Harry was a paradox all by himself, born to two of the bravest people she had ever known but yet their sacrifice had had no effect on him. She recalled an instance where she had been idly chatting to Filius about the students when he had exclaimed that there was an incident with the young boy in which Filius had compared his Charms talent to his mothers and the boy had glared at him before giving a tight-lipped smile and continuing on with the schoolwork, pointedly ignoring the professor. This had been in his first year, and at first she had thought it to be a simple case of boorish ingratitude. And as the year went on and his considerable talents blossomed, she had waited for a spark of his parents to shine through, a moment of bravery that showed his true colours. But there had been plenty of opportunities – a girl getting teased, a boy being tripped – but he had walked past, blissfully oblivious or just not caring, leaving Minerva to sort out the cases. And over time, she started to realise that she was slowly beginning to dislike the boy.

And it was this night, this _particular_ night, when she felt like she was without a friend in the world and nothing to distract her from her darker thoughts that she wished that Harry Potter had died instead of his parents.

* * *

He was darting round his office with a cleaning rag, polishing picture frames with an intensity that did not seem suited to the job he was doing. He became distracted when he caught a flash of platinum in one of the shiny frames, before he smiled and let out a hearty chuckle, his teeth glinting unnaturally, as it was his hair he had seen. Stepping back from the picture he was polishing, he smiled at it lovingly, stroking the massively handsome (well, in his opinion) man's face, before whipping round and gazing into the mirror in pride of place. Strutting up to it, he touched up his hair – even though there was no one in the room with him – and set his hat at a jaunty angle on his head, making him look slightly ridiculous. He looked over to his right, where there were several pedestals, each of them with a book resting in their deep purple velvet cushions – Break With a Banshee, Voyages with Vampires and Wanderings with Werewolves to name a few of the total eight, each of them with the same name emblazoned in bright gold – _Gilderoy Lockhart_.

Oh, how he loved seeing his name in print!

He then went to his desk, sat down and pulled out an ostrich feather quill. As much as he wanted to use the peacock feather one, that one was special and only for book signings. Looking expectantly at the bag next to his table, he picked it up upside down and emptied the bag. Hundreds of letters flew out, some landing on the floor, others on the table and a few even fluttered down into his lap. Sighing, he put them all in a neat pile on his desk, with idle thoughts of getting Snape to give Potter another detention with him to help him reply to all his fan mail. Not that he was complaining, though. He loved fan mail.

But Harry Potter, now _there _was the problem. Gilderoy knew he did something noteworthy a long time ago, but it befuddled him how on earth the boy had managed to hold onto his fame for so long and with such a bad temperament. The boy was moody and self-centered, and had not hobbies outside of the library!

Well, Gilderoy supposed, at least he was in Gilderoy's old House.

**Once again, I am terribly sorry for the shortness of this chapter. I fear my inspiration has left me, as I have many ideas for later on in the story, but right now I am floundering for ideas, but that is not an excuse. I was not sure about this type of chapter, so let me know if you like it – and if you do, what other people's perspectives you want to see.**

**In other news, I have reached three very exciting watersheds – one hundred followers, fifty favourites and fifty reviews! Thank you to all of you that have, as it is you who have been keeping this story alive.**

**Also, I was thinking about adding some cover art for this story, so if you would like to that, PM me.**

**Have a happy winter holidays and a great new year!**


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